Facade
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: Sometimes it seemed like it was the only thing keeping me from losing it completely.


A/N: Like I said, IM conversations prompt a lot. Especially when I start talking about Deakins, which probably isn't surprising to anyone here. Anyway, that would be what prompted this. And CI's still not mine.

* * *

It was everything I wanted it to be, and yet everything I wished it wasn't. There were some days when I wanted to just let it go, and not appear like I was the way I was, but that would have only done one of two things. It would have either changed everyone's opinion of me, or it would have made things worse than they already were. It was hard enough trying to be indifferent, but acting as if I didn't really give a damn one way or the other was another matter in itself. And I didn't like it. 

It was times like these when I sat there at my desk, hoping that I wouldn't be called upon by the brass for another lecture, or my detectives because my presence was needed at another crime scene. These were the times where I sat in my office, struggling with myself, because I knew that once I walked out, I would have to act as if I knew what was doing, without making it look like some small part of me was starting to fade with each new case we brought in. Without making it look like I would not be all right with the world unless this case was closed.

Whether it was because I knew it would put undue pressure on my squad was beyond me. But the last thing I wanted to do was put them on edge, make them think that it was their fault that I was the way I was, because it wasn't, and never would be. I had spent too many years within the department according to some, and yet it would never feel like it had been long enough to me. So I remained where I was, hoping for the day when I would wake up to find everything would be the way I'd always imagined it was, back when I was either young and stupid or too young to really understand that things would never be as they appeared.

The rumors that circulated about me, and about my squad, bothered me, but it was rare that I would ever let this show. The things the lot of us saw out there made me want to be back in a place and time where I didn't have to face things like this. But I was no longer a child, and could no longer hide behind someone else when I started to fear the things around me. So I pretended I didn't, when the truth was that I did. A lot of what I saw scared me, and it wasn't only about me anymore. In fact, it hadn't been only about me in years.

I'd have said it was for my family's sake that I kept this so-called mask on, but it would have been a lie, and I knew it, so I didn't. I had not yet managed to figure out what made me keep up this appearance, but I knew it was something. So I kept it up, and wondered if I was an idiot for it, because all it ever really seemed to do was make me miserable. Enough so that some nights, I sat at the kitchen table, just staring out the window in darkness, unable to close my eyes for fear of what I knew I would see: the latest case, the latest victim…the latest mask I'd had to put on if only to make things appear what the brass liked to call proper. It was all protocol and everyone knew it. We were supposed to appear indifferent, neutral. We weren't supposed to act like we had personal investments in every case we worked.

But the fact remained that sometimes the cases did turn personal, even if it was only because we stuck with them so long that when time came for us to shove them off towards the back burner, we found it hard to let go. I'd had that happen more than once. But like so many others before me, I'd let it go without showing that it bothered me. It was almost as if showing any sort of emotion was showing some sort of weakness, and I had figured out a long while ago that it couldn't have been farther from the truth. So when my detectives came to me, knowing that I would listen to them, I did, and knew that they were not weak, but among the strongest people I knew.

The fact also remained, though, that I had been trained in what some of the younger recruits were now calling the "old school" of the NYPD. I found it amusing where others who'd been trained along the same lines I was found it annoying. I'd always found it interesting, the changes between these older lineups and the ones that were slowly starting to come in to take our places. To follow in our proverbial footsteps, to fill our proverbial shoes. One day, my detectives would be in the same position I held now, and I could only hope that I could last long enough to see that day. This was the squad that I had invested most of myself in, the squad that I would see through until the day where I was finally forced into leaving them.

That was, I mused as I sat there in my office one day, just watching them, probably the one reason why I was this way. Why I never seemed to show any real emotions when at a crime scene, or looking over my squad's shoulders at various photos. I could only hope they knew that I felt the same way they did much of the time: disgusted at the things we saw, but still not willing to give up on the city, or the people within it. I could only hope that they could find it in themselves to look through my eyes, and see that I was not really the so-called cold-hearted captain that everyone else seemed to think I was.

Voices drifting closer to the office told me that someone was coming in, so I closed my eyes for a moment, offering up a silent prayer that I'd be able to keep it all together for just one more day. As my detectives walked in, I rose to my feet, waiting to hear what they would have to say to me. Waiting for news of the latest case, latest victim, latest theories.

I may have hated this façade that I was made to put on, but at present, it was the only thing keeping this all from driving me into madness.


End file.
